


The Loyal, True, and Brave; or, The Adventures of the Ill-Fated Sergeant Forsythe Pendleton Jones III and His Sometimes-Friend Lieutenant Jason Blossom at the Siege of Vicksburg

by WolfOfAnsbach



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: 19th Century, Alternate Universe - Historical, American Civil War, Bonding, Friendship, Gen, Jason and Jughead being friends is my favorite thing and I have to write it all myself, Military, but they might show up in the second chapter, if i write it, im a martyr, the last three characters are only mentioned
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-25
Updated: 2018-05-25
Packaged: 2019-05-13 18:02:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14753655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WolfOfAnsbach/pseuds/WolfOfAnsbach
Summary: The sweltering summer of 1863 finds Sergeant Jones and Lieutenant Blossom of the 51st New York lost in a Mississippi swamp during the Vicksburg Campaign. The two dodge alligators and rebel patrols on their way back to Union lines, and indulge in a bit of bickering and bonding along the way





	The Loyal, True, and Brave; or, The Adventures of the Ill-Fated Sergeant Forsythe Pendleton Jones III and His Sometimes-Friend Lieutenant Jason Blossom at the Siege of Vicksburg

_“John Brown’s body lies a-moldering in the grave, but his soul goes marching on! Glory, glory, hallelujah! His soul goes marching on!_ ”

Sergeant Forsythe 'Jughead' Jones tripped over a cypress root. His musket went spilling from his hands. He pitched forward after it. His fingers clutched at air. But he caught it around the barrel just before it fell into the murky water. He breathed in a sharp sigh of relief.

“If you don’t stop singing that _goddamned song…”_ He growled.

“I like it,” Jason protested. “It’s a nice song.” He drew back his glittering sword and hacked away another clump of leaves and branches. The blade split a spider web in two. Its creeping tenants skittered away into the foliage. Mirth untouched by the grim circumstances, Lieutenant Jason Blossom continued his song. “ _He captured Harpers Ferry with his nineteen men so few, and frightened old Virginia ‘til she trembled through and through!_ ” He cut down a meddlesome cypress branch draped in Spanish moss.  _"Glory, glory, hallelujah!"_

“How the _hell_ do you keep that thing so damn _shiny_?” Jughead huffed.

“An officer without a presentable sword is no officer at all, sergeant,” Jason said.

“Right. Yeah.” A school of little fish skirted around Jughead’s legs. “God, I hate you." They had been tramping through the muggy Mississippi swamps for what seemed an eternity now. The water was almost knee-deep, and each time Jughead’s boot scuffed something hard he nearly died of fright. It was only a matter of time, he figured, until they came face to face with a big rattlesnake, or—God forbid—an alligator. Their dark blue coats were shredded by unforgiving thistles and stained with the greens of the swamp. Blood dripped down Jughead’s forehead and caked around his eyebrows. He could not remember when he’d obtained the cut on his brow, or how.

The two men had long ago ditched their cumbersome packs on a little sandbar some five miles back. It was simply impossible to carry an extra fifty pounds on one’s back in this vicious summer heat. Oppressive, heavy mists crept around the trunks of the cypress trees. Jughead could see the sun shining through the thick forest canopy, if just barely.

“Oh, it’s hot,” Jason sighed. He stepped forward, and nearly pitched headlong into a hidden pit of water. He cried out, stabbed his sword into the mud, and righted himself.

“Really?” Jughead snarked. “It’s _hot_? In the south? In _July_? Couldn’t be.” He tightened the straps on his haversack. “Do you have _any_ idea where we are?”

“Sure,” Jason responded, forging on through the unforgiving swamp. “We are…in Mississippi, not far from Vicksburg.”

“You _know_ that’s not what I meant, you bastard.”

“Okay. Fine. Fair enough. No, I have no idea where the Union lines are. I have a feeling they’re in _this_ direction, though.”

“Oh, thank God we’ve got your feelings to guide us. Those have _never_ steered us wrong.”

“You know what _has_ steered us wrong? Your constant and unremitting pessimism. You’re the crustiest man in the company, I swear.”

“ _Excuse my inability_ to maintain an undying cheer while the rebels hunt us through a dismal southern swamp at nightfall.”

“The rebels aren’t _hunting_ us. They’ve got bigger things to worry about. Like…our army laying siege to Vicksburg. And as soon as we find our way _back…_ ”

“So you admit we _are_ lost!”

“We aren’t _lost_ ,” Jason growled. “We’re…temporarily separated from our unit. A temporary predicament that will be resolved…temporarily.”

“Our _unit_ is probably _dead_!” Jughead snapped.

Jason didn’t reply.

Jughead sighed. He nearly buckled in exhaustion. The sun flashed out of the southern sky, its last rays of light clinging tenaciously to the cypress trees. The croaking of bullfrogs and other wild beasts grew louder. Jughead pulled his haversack tighter to his chest. His legs took on the weight of leaden blocks. His musket on his shoulder felt like a ten-pound tumber. Each step through the waist-deep swamp became a herculean effort.

“Do you think…we ought to stop at some point?” Jughead gasped out.

“Sure. Let’s just find a patch of ground that isn’t four feet underwater.”

Something splashed in the dark water a few feet behind them. Both men whirled around. Jughead gripped his musket tight. He flipped it around and jabbed the glinting bayonet into the darkness. He heard Jason draw his sword. Again.

When they decided no great beast was going to spring out of the murk at them, they resumed their trek.

After another half hour or so, they mercifully came across a little island in the midst of the waters. Jason stumbled ashore first, blue trousers sopping wet. He plucked off his leather boots and poured a veritable gallon of swamp water out of each. Jughead followed suit. Then he collapsed face first onto the marshy earth.

Jason busied himself hacking down suitable branches with his sword.

“What are you doing?” Jughead groaned, neglecting to lift his face from the ground.

“What the hell do you think? Cutting us some firewood.”

“Look at that. He’s got a good idea,” Jughead mumbled. And it probably was. The sun was gone. Darkness gripped the swamp tight. Vision extended just about a half a dozen yards. The splashes and rustling and growling of the wilderness beasts grew unbearably loud.

Within a few minutes, they had a respectable little fire burning. It extended visibility by another five yards or so. The boys huddled around the flame—not for warmth, for the swamp was sweltering, but for the comfort of the light. They stacked their muskets up against a cottonwood tree.

“Hey,” Jason asked. He massaged his feet, bruised and bloodied with the weeks of marching in ill-fitting leather boots. “What day is it?”

“Hell should I know? July 2nd? That’s a guess, don’t take it to heart.”

“Well, you’re good with dates.”

“We’ve been lost in this…goddamned swamp for what? A day? Two days? And before that, I hadn’t checked a calendar since Fredericksburg.”

Jason stoked the fire with a long, crooked stick.

“Look on the bright side. We’ve been lost in this swamp for so long, we’re bound to find our way out soon.”

Jughead opened his mouth. Then he closed it. Then he opened it again. Then he shook his head in awe.

“That is…an impressively stupid way of looking at this situation. Thank you for that.”

Jason frowned.

“You know, I outrank you, _sergeant_.”

Jughead grinned. He whipped his haversack from his shoulder and opened it up. “And that counts for exactly zero out here, _Lieutenant_ ,” he replied. He retrieved his little leather-bound journal. It had been a going away gift. On the inside cover, the initials of the one who'd gifted it shone in the firelight: _B.C._ The book was half-filled already. But he had so much more to fill it with.

“Still writing that book, huh?”

Jughead scribbled a few perfunctory sentences.

“I don’t intend to stop any time soon,” he replied.

“What’s it about, anyway?”

“The 19th century. The Great Rebellion. The United States Army. Myself. Tragedy. Love. Life,” he snarked.

“Sounds moving—oh, goddammit,” Jason moaned. He rolled up his light blue pant leg to find a fat, ugly leech clinging tight to his calf. “Hey, hand me a stick with a burning end, will you?”

“If you insist.”

Jughead plunged a little twig into the fire, heated up the tip, and handed it off. Jason touched the red-hot end to the leech. The creature shortly shriveled and dropped away.

“Good riddance, you little bastard,” Jason growled.

“Entry dated July 2nd, year of our lord 1863. Date uncertain,” Jughead said loudly. He mimed recording the details in his journal. “The gallant Lieutenant Jason Blossom of the Riverdale Rifles, 51st New York, valiantly defeats a dastardly rebel leech in the Battle of the Swamp of Indeterminate Identity. Truly a glorious day for the cause of Universal Human Freedom,”

“Did—did you just write that down?”

“I would _never_.”

Jason scowled.

“I think I, and everyone else in the company—and the entire 51st for that matter, would appreciate it if you appreciated the gravity of war every now and again.”

“A sharp, dry wit is simply the way I engage with the world,” Jughead replied.

“Don’t flatter yourself, sergeant.”

“Anyway, I’m hardly the surliest soldier in the 51st,” Jughead said.

“Oh, name _one_ man who grumbles and grouses more than _you_ ,” Jason challenged.

“Sweet Pea,” Jughead replied without missing a beat.

“Don’t indulge him with that…ridiculous moniker. The corporal has a real name,” Jason said.

“Can you remember what it _is_?”

Jason furrowed his brow.

“A fair point. And anyhow, he _isn’t_ as bad as you. He’s capable of carrying out an order without making some saucy comment every step of the way.”

“I offer helpful criticism of military orders, is what I do,” Jughead insisted.

“Which is precisely why you’re a _terrible_ soldier,” Jason shot back.

“I resent that implication. The fact that I’ve made it this far without being shot speaks in my favor.”

Jason’s hand unconsciously fell to his thigh, where he’d taken a rebel Minié ball at Antietam last year. The redhead frowned at the little jab.

“It’s a mark of courage,” he snapped.

“Yeah, I distinctly remember you asking the surgeon to kindly refrain from removing your leg while your ‘mark of courage’ spurted blood all over Archie’s coat.”

“It was a difficult day.”

“Harder for you than me," Jughead said. "Considering...I wasn't shot.”

Jason shook his leech-removing stick at Jughead.

“When we get out of here, I fully intend to do everything in my family’s considerable power to block the publication of your book.”

“Luckily for me, we’re never going to get out of here.”

“Oh, I’m sure the rest of the Company is already looking for us.”

Jughead snorted. “Assuming ‘the rest of the Company’ still exists.”

“Right,” Jason muttered.

Their company had run afoul of rebel pickets along the Mississippi some three days before. In the ensuing skirmish, the ‘Riverdale Rifles’ were scattered. Jughead fled into the swamp, Confederate cavalry on his tail. After a few hours of aimless wandering, he’d run smack into Lieutenant Blossom, picking his way through the same morass of black water and cypress trees. For all they knew, they were all that was left of Company L.

Jughead watched the blood drain from Jason’s pale face. Their captain was dead, which made Jason commanding officer, and Jughead figured he was the type to feel responsible for what had happened.

“Hey…come on, now,” Jughead said. He was not good at speaking comfort. “I’m sure they’re alright. Most of them, anyway.” Jason did not respond, and instead took to picking at the fire with a stick. Jughead went on. “We’re tough, right? We made it through Fredericksburg and Stone Bridge.”

“Right,” Jason said at last. “Yeah, if any company in the Army of the Tennessee could make it past a few secesh cavalry it’s Riverdale.”

Jughead changed tack.

“Look, far be it from me to suggest letting down our guard in this eerie swamp, but we probably ought to get some sleep if we want to continue our futile trek in the morning.”

“Yes!” Jason exclaimed. He reached into his sack and drew out what Jughead took at first to be a long, multicolored rag. The strips of red, white, and blue shone in the fire’s warm glow. Then Jason spread the fabric out, and Jughead recognized the company’s colors. It was a US flag, about eight feet long by five feet wide. The words ‘Riverdale Rifles’ were embossed in gold along one of the red stripes.

“In the heat of battle you decided it was prudent to save that cumbersome thing?”

Jason threw the flag around himself like a blanket. He pulled it tight around his shoulders. The banner had waved over them ever since they first marched out of Riverdale nearly two years ago. Its fringes were frayed and splitting. The cloth was ripped and torn by bullets and grapeshot.

“You know, the greatest dishonor that could befall a Roman legion was the loss of its eagle. So, yes, I saved the colors, Sergeant Jones.”

“Yeah, well, this isn’t Teutoburg, we aren’t Roman soldiers, and _that_ isn’t an eagle.”

“Anyway, Cheryl and I sewed it together. I’m not leaving it anywhere.”

Jughead rolled over onto his back and smiled.

“Damn. There’s a name I’ve mercifully not heard in a while. We should write the War Department and tell them to turn Cheryl loose on the rebs. That ought to force a surrender in a day or two.”

Jason was silent for a moment. Then he giggled.

“Yes. We’ll recommend her to replace McClellan.”

They lay back on either side of the fire, staring up through the twisting tree branches.

“Hey,” Jughead said. “You know, conduct befitting an officer and a gentleman would dictate you share your flag-turned-blanket with me.”

Jason rolled over. “Only if you promise to make it through tomorrow without any griping.”

“I will…take your request into consideration, and that’s the best I can promise.”

“Fine,” Jason said. “Come here.”

They huddled together beneath the tattered banner. It was hardly cold, but the flag-blanket provided a sense of security. Jughead felt Jason’s chest rise and fall as his breathing leveled out.

“Good night,” Jughead said.

Jason nodded.

“Good night, sergeant.”

* * *

Jughead awoke to Jason singing ‘The Girl I Left Behind Me’. Loudly.

“ _Oh, ne’er shall I forget the night, the stars were bright above me, and gently lent their silvery light when first she vowed to love me…”_

Jughead rolled over and groaned. He pushed his bleary eyes open. A dim, red sunlight forced its way through the thick foliage of the swamp.

“God almighty…” he moaned.

“ _But now I’m bound for Brighton Camp, kind heaven, then, pray, guide me, and send me safely back again to the girl I left behind me!”_

“What the hell are you _doing_?”

“Cheering myself with a bit of song, if it pleases the good sergeant.”

“It does _not_ please the good sergeant!” Jughead snapped. “For God’s sake, it’s hardly daylight!”

“And we don’t want to _waste_ an hour of daylight, do we?”

Within a half hour, they’d buried the ashes of their fire and resumed their trek through the bleak waters of this nameless Mississippi swamp. Bullfrogs leapt from their perches as the two soldiers passed by. Jughead watched a cottonmouth slither over a half-sunken log. Spiders and cockroaches flitted through the trees. Dragonflies buzzed through the humid air. For two lads raised in the fair climate of New York’s Hudson Valley, it was all quite the change of scenery.

“If I lived in this…sweltering hell I’d probably want to make war on the Union, too,” Jughead moaned.

“Am I going to have to report you for treasonous sentiments?”

“My God! Has Lieutenant Blossom finally learned to jest?”

“I’ve always appreciated a good joke,” Jason insisted.

“No you haven’t.”

“I’ve got a sense of humor!”

“Mmm…”

Jason stopped. He whirled around, throwing dark water into the air. He crossed his arms. A few small fish swam around his legs.

“Why the hell are you even _here_? I _know_ you volunteered. You aren’t a levy. So what in God’s name prompted you to list with us if you’ve got nothing but complaints?”

They resumed their march.

“That’s a good question, Lieutenant Blossom. Let me retrace my steps, shall I? Picture, if you will, the little town of Riverdale, New York, in the spring of 1861. There I was, in Mr. Tate’s general store. Miss Cooper and I had come to pick up…what was it, potatoes? I don’t recall. I remember Betty saying ‘Oh, Juggie! Look! The price has fallen!’ It's very clear, in my mind. Clearer than most things since. Then, like a herald of providence, my dear friend Archibald Andrews burst through the doors, waving his arms about, and crying: ‘the rebels have fired on Fort Sumter! The President has put out a call for 75,000 volunteers to save the Union!’ Then _you_ stumbled into the store behind him shouting: ‘Hurrah for the starry banner! Hurrah for the Union! God bless President Lincoln! Come on, boys!’ There was a great cheer, and the store cleared out in a matter of seconds. The rest is a bit of a haze. The next thing I remember is standing in a cloud of gun smoke at Bull Run while rebel shot and shell burst around me. So you ask me why I’m here and I tell you…it pretty well just…happened.”

Jason sighed.

“Well...I suppose that’s as good a reason as any.”

“Why’d _you_ join up?”

Jason shrugged.

“It made my blood boil to see those traitors hurl the Old Flag off of Fort Sumter. Though I _do_ wish they’d left us in Virginia where the _real_ fighting is. Not down here fighting for—who gives a damn for Vicksburg, anyway?”

Jughead’s foot sank into the mud.

“Well, you’ll be glad to know Vicksburg is vital to victory.”

“How’s that?”

“Vicksburg commands the Mississippi. If we take it, then we take the river and cut the Confederacy in half. Christ, what did they teach you at West Point?”

Jason swatted aside a swarm of gnats with his sword.

“French and mathematics, mostly. There was a bit of marksmanship when we had the time.”

“Are we _pretending_ to have our bearings any more?” Jughead snapped.

“The swamp has got to end eventually.”

“Not before our food and water runs out.”

They mercifully found a long stretch of ground where the water came only about halfway up the shin.

“Speaking of which…do you have anything left to eat in your bag?” Jason asked.

Jughead sighed. He stopped walking. He opened up his haversack.

“Well, let’s see. We’ve got a bit of hardtack…there’s some hardtack…and if one were to carry out a truly thorough search of my haversack, he might find yet more hardtack.” Jason looked truly disappointed. “What did you expect, maple ham?” Jason’s frown deepened. “Don’t look at me like that. The maple jokes are funny, whether you acknowledge it or not.”

“Can…I have some hardtack?” Jason asked.

“Yeah, give me a second, here.”

They found a dry enough patch of ground. Hardly an island. Barely big enough for the two of them to stand upon. But still. Jason produced his flag and spread it out like a picnic blanket. They sat down. Jughead retrieved a bit of hardtack. He handed it over to his comrade.

“Are there worms in it?” Jason asked. He broke the cracker in half and peered into the little biscuit's perforations. “Yes, there are worms in it.” He shook the hardtack, and a few weevil larvae went sailing into the water.

“There are always worms in it,” Jughead said, taking a bite of his own hardtack. “I’m not sure why you’re surprised.”

“Not surprised. Just disappointed.”

They ate in silence for a moment. The air sizzled with summer heat. Insects buzzed. When they’d finished their meager meal, Jason stuffed the colors back into his bag. They resumed their journey.

The day grew long. The sun reached its apex in the sky. The heat became unbearable. The pair came near swooning.

They reached a deep pool of water, coated over the top with a thick layer of green moss. A single tree, by good fortune, had fallen across the width of the little lagoon, affording a bridge to the other side. Jason tested the trunk with the toe of his boot and found it solid.

“We’re going across?” Jughead asked.

“We’re going across.”

Jason stepped out onto the tree. He held out his arms on either side for balance. Jughead followed close behind, crouching low.

“Please don’t fall,” Jughead pleaded. “Because if you do, I’m going in, too.”

Jason turned around. The act of dong so shook the trunk beneath them. Both men shuddered. Jason pitched forward. He caught himself, but his haversack went sliding from his shoulder. For a horrid moment it hung suspended in the shimmering air. Then it tumbled headlong into the dark pool. The splash sent up clumps of moss and swamp water. Jason cried out.

“The flag!” He stared into the murk. The surface rippled where the bag had gone in, then calmed. Jughead looked his comrade square in the face. Jason set his jaw. There were already tears brimming in his eyes, even as he tried to blink them away.

“Oh, for God’s sake,” Jughead sighed. He plucked off his boots. He took his musket from his shoulder. Then he shoved them both into a dazed Jason’s arms. “Hold these.” Jughead crouched, braced himself, and then leapt into the swamp.

“Wait!” Jason called after him.

Too late. Jughead struck the black water head on. The swamp swallowed him up. Water seeped into his coat. Into his trousers. Warm and thick and laced with moss. Like a soup. Vines and submerged branches brushed at his limbs. He groped desperately in the dark. He felt nothing. He dove deeper. The water must have been some twenty feet deep at least. Jughead dared to open his eyes. The murk was impenetrable. He saw a flash of—something, a few feet off. Something shiny. He kicked his feet and surged forward. He reached out again. His fingers brushed leather. He had it! His lungs burned. He closed a hand around the strap of Jason’s haversack. Having won back the prize, he kicked feverishly towards the dim light above

Jughead broke the surface. He shook his dark locks free of the grime and mud, and sucked in a deep, gasping breath. Jason had already reached the other bank. Jughead swam to shore and stumbled out of the lagoon, firmly clutching the bag in his hand. Jason beamed. Jughead stood at the edge of the water, dripping wet.

“Here. Here’s your goddamned flag,” he gasped, holding out the sack. Jason stepped forward.

“You didn’t have to do that.”

“Well, I did it, it’s done. Just...anything to keep you from crying. My God, on top of everything else. I'm not equipped for that.”

Jason opened the bag to verify that his flag was still there. Then he pulled the soaked sergeant into an embrace.

“Thank you.”

“Yeah, fine, let’s keep on.” But Jason wasn’t staring at him anymore. He was staring past him, over his shoulder, towards the water. He knitted his brow.

“What is that?” Jason muttered aloud. “A log?”

“What? What log? What are y—“ Jughead whirled around. “Oh, son of a bi—“ The alligator exploded from the swamp in a flash of scales and teeth. They stumbled back and cried out in horror. Jughead scrambled away from the bank. It was too late. The great beast lunged and caught his leg in its crushing jaws. It yanked him back towards the dark lagoon. Jughead screamed. His leg felt like it was caught between a giant press. The fat, jagged teeth slashed through cloth and flesh and scraped his bone. The alligator shook him back and forth like a dog with a rat. “Lieutenant! Kill it!” Jughead wailed.

Jason stood stock-still, shocked into uselessness. Then he sprang into action. More or less. He dropped to one knee and planted his musket into the ground, stock-first. He produced a cartridge from his belt. He tore away its end with his teeth. He poured the powder down the barrel. He dropped the ball in after it. He reached for the ramrod.

It would have been an impressive performance on the battlefield. Given the circumstances, it was comically slow.

“Are you out of your _goddamned mind_?” Jughead cried. “Use the damned bayonet!”

Jason leapt to his feet, charged with a yell, and slashed away at the monster with the bayonet. The first few blows glanced off of the alligator’s armored hide. The beast, unmolested, continued leisurely chewing on Jughead’s leg. Jughead brought his fists down on the creature's ugly skull, and succeeded only in bruising himself against the jagged scales.The alligator rolled, exposing its underbelly. Jason stepped back. He rammed the bayonet forward, and buried it in the vulnerable skin beneath the creature’s throat. Blood spurted. The alligator roared in pain. Its jaws creaked opened. Jughead took the opportunity. He extracted his leg from the crushing maw and scrambled away. Jason took him by the arm and dragged him out of the monster’s reach.

The alligator thrashed and slithered in the frothing, bloodied water. It backed off a few feet and hissed at its foes. Its fangs dripped red. Jughead gasped, leg throbbing, face drained of blood.

Jason finished loading his musket. He dropped back to his knee and fired. The bullet struck the alligator’s armored back, leaving a streak of red and white down its flank. The creature growled, turned, and disappeared back into the murky water with a flick of its broad tail.

Jughead took Jason’s proffered hand and stumbled to his feet.

“Can you put weight on it?” Jason askedJughead tried. He gingerly shifted his weight to the mangled leg.

“I can—ah! Goddamn! I can if I must.”

“Well, don’t, for now. Here, let me help you.” He slung Jughead’s arm over his shoulder, and together they hobbled off into the swamp again.

After a few minutes more of marching, they decided they’d put enough distance between themselves and the alligator. Jughead set himself down against a tree, and pulled back his shredded pant leg to examine the injuries. It didn’t look all that bad, truthfully. The lacerations were ugly, streaked with blood. The entire right side of his body felt aflame. But no bones were broken. The absence of gushing arteries meant he likely wouldn’t bleed out.

“Well, good news,” Jughead started. “Assuming this wound doesn’t become infected, I think I’ll be okay. The bad news is, if I come out of this swamp _without_ an infection it will be a true miracle.”

Jason pulled his beloved flag from the bag again. It was soaked through with swamp water. He ripped away two strips of red and white cloth.

“Let me bind it.”

“I was nearly devoured by an alligator to save your damned rag and you want to tear it to bits, now?”

Jason shrugged.

“You saved it for me, I figure you’re entitled to a piece.” Jason gently wound the strips around Jughead’s ugly wound. He tied the makeshift bandages tight, knotted just behind the knee. He patted Jughead’s thigh. They sat back and closed their eyes, exhausted. The swamp continued to buzz and hum. They ate a bit more hardtack. A fat swamp rat darted through the brush a few yards away.

“God, it hurts,” Jughead moaned.

“I’m sorry,” Jason said.

“Well, _you_ didn’t bite me,”

“No, but you _did_ leap into that swamp to save _my_ haversack. I suppose that lays a bit of the responsibility on my shoulders.”

“You didn’t ask me to jump in after it. It was a stupid decision, but it was _my_ stupid decision. Fine?”

“Yeah. Fine.”

 There was another long silence. Then Jughead spoke again.

“Lieutenant?”

“Yes, sergeant?”

“I wish I wasn’t in Dixie.”


End file.
